And tok hire leve, and forth is goInto hire oghne chambre by,As sche that wende certeinlyHave had a frend, and hadde a fo,Wherof fell after mochel wo.This tirant, thogh he lyhe softe,Out of his bed aros fulofte, 4960And goth aboute, and leide his EreTo herkne, til that alle wereTo bedde gon and slepten faste.And thanne upon himself he casteA mantell, and his swerd al nakedHe tok in honde; and sche unwakedAbedde lay, but what sche mette,God wot; for he the Dore unschetteSo prively that non it herde,The softe pas and forth he ferde 4970Unto the bed wher that sche slepte,Al sodeinliche and in he crepte,And hire in bothe his Armes tok.With that this worthi wif awok,Which thurgh tendresce of wommanhiedeHire vois hath lost for pure drede,That o word speke sche ne dar:And ek he bad hir to be war,For if sche made noise or cry,He seide, his swerd lay faste by 4980To slen hire and hire folk aboute.And thus he broghte hire herte in doute,That lich a Lomb whanne it is sesedIn wolves mouth, so was desesedLucrece, which he naked fond:Wherof sche swounede in his hond,And, as who seith, lay ded oppressed.And he, which al him hadde adrescedTo lust, tok thanne what him liste,And goth his wey, that non it wiste, 4990Into his oghne chambre ayein,And clepede up his chamberlein,And made him redi forto ryde.And thus this lecherouse prideTo horse lepte and forth he rod;And sche, which in hire bed abod,Whan that sche wiste he was agon,Sche clepede after liht anonAnd up aros long er the day,And caste awey hire freissh aray, 5000As sche which hath the world forsake,And tok upon the clothes blake:And evere upon continuinge,Riht as men sen a welle springe,With yhen fulle of wofull teres,Hire her hangende aboute hire Eres,Sche wepte, and noman wiste why.Bot yit among full pitouslySche preide that thei nolden dreccheHire housebonde forto fecche 5010Forth with hire fader ek also.Thus be thei comen bothe tuo,And Brutus cam with Collatin,Which to Lucrece was cousin,And in thei wenten alle threTo chambre, wher thei myhten seThe wofulleste upon this Molde,Which wepte as sche to water scholde.The chambre Dore anon was stoke,Er thei have oght unto hire spoke; 5020Thei sihe hire clothes al desguised,And hou sche hath hirself despised,Hire her hangende unkemd aboute,Bot natheles sche gan to louteAnd knele unto hire housebonde;And he, which fain wolde understondeThe cause why sche ferde so,With softe wordes axeth tho,"What mai you be, mi goode swete?"And sche, which thoghte hirself unmete 5030And the lest worth of wommen alle,Hire wofull chiere let doun falleFor schame and couthe unnethes loke.And thei therof good hiede toke,And preiden hire in alle weieThat sche ne spare forto seieUnto hir frendes what hire eileth,Why sche so sore hirself beweileth,And what the sothe wolde mene.And sche, which hath hire sorwes grene, 5040Hire wo to telle thanne assaieth,Bot tendre schame hire word delaieth,That sondri times as sche minteTo speke, upon the point sche stinte.And thei hire bidden evere in onTo telle forth, and therupon,Whan that sche sih sche moste nede,Hire tale betwen schame and dredeSche tolde, noght withoute peine.And he, which wolde hire wo restreigne, 5050Hire housebonde, a sory man,Conforteth hire al that he can,And swor, and ek hire fader bothe,That thei with hire be noght wrotheOf that is don ayein hire wille;And preiden hire to be stille,For thei to hire have al foryive.Bot sche, which thoghte noght to live,Of hem wol no foryivenesse,And seide, of thilke wickednesse 5060Which was unto hire bodi wroght,Al were it so sche myhte it noght,Nevere afterward the world ne schalReproeven hire; and forth withal,Er eny man therof be war,A naked swerd, the which sche barWithinne hire Mantel priveli,Betwen hire hondes sodeinlySche tok, and thurgh hire herte it throng,And fell to grounde, and evere among, 5070Whan that sche fell, so as sche myhte,Hire clothes with hire hand sche rihte,That noman dounward fro the kneScholde eny thing of hire se:Thus lay this wif honestely,Althogh sche deide wofully.Tho was no sorwe forto seke:Hire housebonde, hire fader ekeAswoune upon the bodi felle;Ther mai no mannes tunge telle 5080In which anguisshe that thei were.Bot Brutus, which was with hem there,Toward himself his herte kepte,And to Lucrece anon he lepte,The blodi swerd and pulleth oute,And swor the goddes al abouteThat he therof schal do vengance.And sche tho made a contienance,Hire dedlich yhe and ate lasteIn thonkinge as it were up caste, 5090And so behield him in the wise,Whil sche to loke mai suffise.And Brutus with a manlich herteHire housebonde hath mad up sterteForth with hire fader ek alsoIn alle haste, and seide hem thoThat thei anon withoute letteA Beere for the body fette;Lucrece and therupon bledendeHe leide, and so forth out criende 5100He goth into the Market placeOf Rome: and in a litel spaceThurgh cry the cite was assembled,And every mannes herte is trembled,Whan thei the sothe herde of the cas.And therupon the conseil wasTake of the grete and of the smale,And Brutus tolde hem al the tale;And thus cam into remembranceOf Senne the continuance, 5110Which Arrons hadde do tofore,And ek, long time er he was bore,Of that his fadre hadde doThe wrong cam into place tho;So that the comun clamour toldeThe newe schame of Sennes olde.And al the toun began to crie,"Awey, awey the tirannieOf lecherie and covoitise!"And ate laste in such a wise 5120The fader in the same whileForth with his Sone thei exile,And taken betre governance.Bot yit an other remembranceThat rihtwisnesse and lecherieAcorden noght in compaignieWith him that hath the lawe on honde,That mai a man wel understonde,As be a tale thou shalt wite,Of olde ensample as it is write. 5130At Rome whan that Apius,Whos other name is Claudius,Was governour of the cite,Ther fell a wonder thing to seTouchende a gentil Maide, as thus,Whom Livius VirginiusBegeten hadde upon his wif:Men seiden that so fair a lifAs sche was noght in al the toun.This fame, which goth up and doun, 5140To Claudius cam in his Ere,Wherof his thoght anon was there,Which al his herte hath set afyre,That he began the flour desireWhich longeth unto maydenhede,And sende, if that he myhte spedeThe blinde lustes of his wille.Bot that thing mai he noght fulfille,For sche stod upon Mariage;A worthi kniht of gret lignage, 5150Ilicius which thanne hihte,Acorded in hire fader sihteWas, that he scholde his douhter wedde.Bot er the cause fully spedde,Hire fader, which in RomanieThe ledinge of chivalerieIn governance hath undertake,Upon a werre which was takeGoth out with al the strengthe he haddeOf men of Armes whiche he ladde: 5160So was the mariage left,And stod upon acord til eft.The king, which herde telle of this,Hou that this Maide ordeigned isTo Mariage, thoghte an other.And hadde thilke time a brother,Which Marchus Claudius was hote,And was a man of such rioteRiht as the king himselve was:Thei tuo togedre upon this cas 5170In conseil founden out this weie,That Marchus Claudius schal seieHou sche be weie of covenantTo his service appourtenantWas hol, and to non other man;And therupon he seith he canIn every point witnesse take,So that sche schal it noght forsake.Whan that thei hadden schape so,After the lawe which was tho, 5180Whil that hir fader was absent,Sche was somouned and assentTo come in presence of the kingAnd stonde in ansuere of this thing.Hire frendes wisten alle welThat it was falshed everydel,And comen to the king and seiden,Upon the comun lawe and preiden,So as this noble worthi knyhtHir fader for the comun riht 5190In thilke time, as was befalle,Lai for the profit of hem alleUpon the wylde feldes armed,That he ne scholde noght ben harmedNe schamed, whil that he were oute;And thus thei preiden al aboute.For al the clamour that he herde,The king upon his lust ansuerde,And yaf hem only daies tuoOf respit; for he wende tho, 5200That in so schorte a time appiereHire fader mihte in no manere.Bot as therof he was deceived;For Livius hadde al conceivedThe pourpos of the king tofore,So that to Rome ayein therforeIn alle haste he cam ridende,And lefte upon the field liggendeHis host, til that he come ayein.And thus this worthi capitein 5210Appiereth redi at his day,Wher al that evere reson mayBe lawe in audience he doth,So that his dowhter upon sothOf that Marchus hire hadde accusedHe hath tofore the court excused.The king, which sih his pourpos faile,And that no sleihte mihte availe,Encombred of his lustes blindeThe lawe torneth out of kinde, 5220And half in wraththe as thogh it were,In presence of hem alle thereDeceived of concupiscenceYaf for his brother the sentence,And bad him that he scholde seseThis Maide and make him wel at ese;Bot al withinne his oghne ententeHe wiste hou that the cause wente,Of that his brother hath the wyteHe was himselven forto wyte. 5230Bot thus this maiden hadde wrong,Which was upon the king along,Bot ayein him was non Appel,And that the fader wiste wel:Wherof upon the tirannie,That for the lust of LecherieHis douhter scholde be deceived,And that Ilicius was weyvedUntrewly fro the Mariage,Riht as a Leon in his rage, 5240Which of no drede set acompteAnd not what pite scholde amounte,A naked swerd he pulleth oute,The which amonges al the routeHe threste thurgh his dowhter side,And al alowd this word he cride:"Lo, take hire ther, thou wrongfull king,For me is levere upon this thingTo be the fader of a Maide,Thogh sche be ded, that if men saide 5250That in hir lif sche were schamedAnd I therof were evele named."Tho bad the king men scholde aresteHis bodi, bot of thilke heste,Lich to the chaced wylde bor,The houndes whan he fieleth sor,Tothroweth and goth forth his weie,In such a wise forto seieThis worthi kniht with swerd on hondeHis weie made, and thei him wonde, 5260That non of hem his strokes kepte;And thus upon his hors he lepte,And with his swerd droppende of blod,The which withinne his douhter stod,He cam ther as the pouer wasOf Rome, and tolde hem al the cas,And seide hem that thei myhten liereUpon the wrong of his matiere,That betre it were to redresceAt hom the grete unrihtwisnesse, 5270Than forto werre in strange placeAnd lese at hom here oghne grace.For thus stant every mannes lifIn jeupartie for his wifOr for his dowhter, if thei bePassende an other of beaute.Of this merveile which thei siheSo apparant tofore here yhe,Of that the king him hath misbore,Here othes thei have alle swore 5280That thei wol stonde be the riht.And thus of on acord uprihtTo Rome at ones hom ayeinThei torne, and schortly forto sein,This tirannye cam to mouthe,And every man seith what he couthe,So that the prive tricherie,Which set was upon lecherie,Cam openly to mannes Ere;And that broghte in the comun feere, 5290That every man the peril draddeOf him that so hem overladde.Forthi, er that it worse falle,Thurgh comun conseil of hem alleThei have here wrongfull king deposed,And hem in whom it was supposedThe conseil stod of his ledingeBe lawe unto the dom thei bringe,Wher thei receiven the penanceThat longeth to such governance. 5300And thus thunchaste was chastised,Wherof thei myhte ben avisedThat scholden afterward governe,And be this evidence lerne,Hou it is good a king eschuieThe lust of vice and vertu suie.To make an ende in this partie,Which toucheth to the PolicieOf Chastite in special,As for conclusion final 5310That every lust is to eschueBe gret ensample I mai argue:Hou in Rages a toun of MedeTher was a Mayde, and as I rede,Sarra sche hihte, and RaguelHir fader was; and so befell,Of bodi bothe and of visageWas non so fair of the lignage,To seche among hem alle, as sche;Wherof the riche of the cite, 5320Of lusti folk that couden love,Assoted were upon hire love,And asken hire forto wedde.On was which ate laste spedde,Bot that was more for likinge,To have his lust, than for weddinge,As he withinne his herte caste,Which him repenteth ate laste.For so it fell the ferste nyht,That whanne he was to bedde dyht, 5330As he which nothing god besechethBot al only hise lustes secheth,Abedde er he was fully warmAnd wolde have take hire in his Arm,Asmod, which was a fend of helle,And serveth, as the bokes telle,To tempte a man of such a wise,Was redy there, and thilke emprise,Which he hath set upon delit,He vengeth thanne in such a plit, 5340That he his necke hathe writhe atuo.This yonge wif was sory tho,Which wiste nothing what it mente;And natheles yit thus it wenteNoght only of this ferste man,Bot after, riht as he began,Sexe othre of hire housebondesAsmod hath take into hise bondes,So that thei alle abedde deiden,Whan thei her hand toward hir leiden, 5350Noght for the lawe of Mariage,Bot for that ilke fyri rageIn which that thei the lawe excede:For who that wolde taken hiedeWhat after fell in this matiere,Ther mihte he wel the sothe hiere.Whan sche was wedded to Thobie,And Raphael in compainieHath tawht him hou to ben honeste,Asmod wan noght at thilke feste, 5360And yit Thobie his wille hadde;For he his lust so goodly ladde,That bothe lawe and kinde is served,Wherof he hath himself preserved,That he fell noght in the sentence.O which an open evidenceOf this ensample a man mai se,That whan likinge in the degreOf Mariage mai forsueie,Wel oghte him thanne in other weie 5370Of lust to be the betre avised.For god the lawes hath assissedAls wel to reson as to kinde,Bot he the bestes wolde bindeOnly to lawes of nature,Bot to the mannes creatureGod yaf him reson forth withal,Wherof that he nature schalUpon the causes modefie,That he schal do no lecherie, 5380And yit he schal hise lustes have.So ben the lawes bothe saveAnd every thing put out of sclandre;As whilom to king AlisandreThe wise Philosophre tawhte,Whan he his ferste lore cawhte,Noght only upon chastete,Bot upon alle honestete;Wherof a king himself mai taste,Hou trewe, hou large, hou joust, hou chaste 5390Him oghte of reson forto be,Forth with the vertu of Pite,Thurgh which he mai gret thonk deserveToward his godd, that he preserveHim and his poeple in alle weltheOf pes, richesse, honour and heltheHier in this world and elles eke.Mi Sone, as we tofore spiekeIn schrifte, so as thou me seidest,And for thin ese, as thou me preidest, 5400Thi love throghes forto lisse,That I thee wolde telle and wisseThe forme of Aristotles lore,I have it seid, and somdiel moreOf othre ensamples, to assaieIf I thi peines myhte allaieThurgh eny thing that I can seie.Do wey, mi fader, I you preie:Of that ye have unto me toldI thonke you a thousendfold. 5410The tales sounen in myn Ere,Bot yit min herte is elleswhere,I mai miselve noght restreigne,That I nam evere in loves peine:Such lore couthe I nevere gete,Which myhte make me foryeteO point, bot if so were I slepte,That I my tydes ay ne kepteTo thenke of love and of his lawe;That herte can I noght withdrawe. 5420Forthi, my goode fader diere,Lef al and speke of my matiereTouchende of love, as we begonne:If that ther be oght overronneOr oght foryete or left behindeWhich falleth unto loves kinde,Wherof it nedeth to be schrive,Nou axeth, so that whil I liveI myhte amende that is mys.Mi goode diere Sone, yis. 5430Thi schrifte forto make plein,Ther is yit more forto seinOf love which is unavised.Bot for thou schalt be wel avisedUnto thi schrifte as it belongeth,A point which upon love hongethAnd is the laste of alle tho,I wol thee telle, and thanne ho.

The myhti god, which unbegunneStant of himself and hath begunneAlle othre thinges at his wille,The hevene him liste to fulfilleOf alle joie, where as heSit inthronized in his See,And hath hise Angles him to serve,Suche as him liketh to preserve,So that thei mowe noght forsueie:Bot Lucifer he putte aweie, 10With al the route apostaziedOf hem that ben to him allied,Whiche out of hevene into the helleFrom Angles into fendes felle;Wher that ther is no joie of lyht,Bot more derk than eny nyhtThe peine schal ben endeles;And yit of fyres nathelesTher is plente, bot thei ben blake,Wherof no syhte mai be take. 20Thus whan the thinges ben befalle,That Luciferes court was falleWher dedly Pride hem hath conveied,Anon forthwith it was pourveiedThurgh him which alle thinges may;He made Adam the sexte dayIn Paradis, and to his makeHim liketh Eve also to make,And bad hem cresce and multiplie.For of the mannes Progenie, 30Which of the womman schal be bore,The nombre of Angles which was lore,Whan thei out fro the blisse felle,He thoghte to restore, and felleIn hevene thilke holy placeWhich stod tho voide upon his grace.Bot as it is wel wiste and knowe,Adam and Eve bot a throwe,So as it scholde of hem betyde,In Paradis at thilke tyde 40Ne duelten, and the cause why,Write in the bok of Genesi,As who seith, alle men have herd,Hou Raphael the fyri swerdIn honde tok and drof hem oute,To gete here lyves fode abouteUpon this wofull Erthe hiere.Metodre seith to this matiere,As he be revelacionIt hadde upon avision, 50Hou that Adam and Eve alsoVirgines comen bothe tuoInto the world and were aschamed,Til that nature hem hath reclamedTo love, and tauht hem thilke lore,That ferst thei keste, and overmoreThei don that is to kinde due,Wherof thei hadden fair issue.A Sone was the ferste of alle,And Chain be name thei him calle; 60Abel was after the secounde,And in the geste as it is founde,Nature so the cause ladde,Tuo douhtres ek Dame Eve hadde,The ferste cleped CalmanaWas, and that other Delbora.Thus was mankinde to beginne;Forthi that time it was no SinneThe Soster forto take hire brother,Whan that ther was of chois non other: 70To Chain was Calmana betake,And Delboram hath Abel take,In whom was gete nathelesOf worldes folk the ferste encres.Men sein that nede hath no lawe,And so it was be thilke daweAnd laste into the Secounde Age,Til that the grete water rage,Of Noeh which was seid the flod,The world, which thanne in Senne stod, 80Hath dreint, outake lyves Eyhte.Tho was mankinde of litel weyhte;Sem, Cham, Japhet, of these thre,That ben the Sones of Noe5,The world of mannes nacionInto multiplicacionWas tho restored newe ayeinSo ferforth, as the bokes sein,That of hem thre and here issueTher was so large a retenue, 90Of naciouns seventy and tuo;In sondri place ech on of thoThe wyde world have enhabited.Bot as nature hem hath excited,Thei token thanne litel hiede,The brother of the SosterhiedeTo wedde wyves, til it camInto the time of Habraham.Whan the thridde Age was begunne,The nede tho was overrunne, 100For ther was poeple ynouh in londe:Thanne ate ferste it cam to honde,That Sosterhode of mariageWas torned into cousinage,So that after the rihte lyneThe Cousin weddeth the cousine.For Habraham, er that he deide,This charge upon his servant leide,To him and in this wise spak,That he his Sone Isaa5c 110Do wedde for no worldes good,Bot only to his oghne blod:Wherof this Servant, as he bad,Whan he was ded, his Sone hath ladTo Bathuel, wher he RebeckeHath wedded with the whyte necke;For sche, he wiste wel and syh,Was to the child cousine nyh.And thus as Habraham hath tawht,Whan Isaa5c was god betawht, 120His Sone Jacob dede also,And of Laban the dowhtres tuo,Which was his Em, he tok to wyve,And gat upon hem in his lyve,Of hire ferst which hihte Lie,Sex Sones of his Progenie,And of Rachel tuo Sones eke:The remenant was forto seke,That is to sein of foure mo,Wherof he gat on Bala tuo, 130And of Zelpha he hadde ek tweie.And these tuelve, as I thee seie,Thurgh providence of god himselveBen seid the Patriarkes tuelve;Of whom, as afterward befell,The tribes tuelve of IrahelEngendred were, and ben the sameThat of Hebreus tho hadden name,Which of Sibrede in allianceFor evere kepten thilke usance 140Most comunly, til Crist was bore.Bot afterward it was forboreAmonges ous that ben baptized;For of the lawe canonizedThe Pope hath bede to the men,That non schal wedden of his kenNe the seconde ne the thridde.Bot thogh that holy cherche it bidde,So to restreigne Mariage,Ther ben yit upon loves Rage 150Full manye of suche nou adayThat taken wher thei take may.For love, which is unbeseinOf alle reson, as men sein,Thurgh sotie and thurgh nycete,Of his voluptuositeHe spareth no condicionOf ken ne yit religion,Bot as a cock among the Hennes,Or as a Stalon in the Fennes, 160Which goth amonges al the Stod,Riht so can he nomore good,Bot takth what thing comth next to honde.Mi Sone, thou schalt understonde,That such delit is forto blame.Forthi if thou hast be the sameTo love in eny such manere,Tell forth therof and schrif thee hiere.Mi fader, nay, god wot the sothe,Mi feire is noght of such a bothe, 170So wylde a man yit was I nevere,That of mi ken or lief or levereMe liste love in such a wise:And ek I not for what empriseI scholde assote upon a Nonne,For thogh I hadde hir love wonne,It myhte into no pris amonte,So therof sette I non acompte.Ye mai wel axe of this and that,Bot sothli forto telle plat, 180In al this world ther is bot onThe which myn herte hath overgon;I am toward alle othre fre.Full wel, mi Sone, nou I seeThi word stant evere upon o place,Bot yit therof thou hast a grace,That thou thee myht so wel excuseOf love such as som men use,So as I spak of now tofore.For al such time of love is lore, 190And lich unto the bitterswete;For thogh it thenke a man ferst swete,He schal wel fielen ate lasteThat it is sour and may noght laste.For as a morsell envenimed,So hath such love his lust mistimed,And grete ensamples manyonA man mai finde therupon.At Rome ferst if we beginne,Ther schal I finde hou of this sinne 200An Emperour was forto blame,Gayus Caligula be name,Which of his oghne Sostres threBerefte the virginite:And whanne he hadde hem so forlein,As he the which was al vilein,He dede hem out of londe exile.Bot afterward withinne a whileGod hath beraft him in his ireHis lif and ek his large empire: 210And thus for likinge of a throweFor evere his lust was overthrowe.Of this sotie also I finde,Amon his Soster ayein kinde,Which hihte Thamar, he forlay;Bot he that lust an other dayAboghte, whan that AbsolonHis oghne brother therupon,Of that he hadde his Soster schent,Tok of that Senne vengement 220And slowh him with his oghne hond:And thus thunkinde unkinde fond.And forto se more of this thing,The bible makth a knowleching,Wherof thou miht take evidenceUpon the sothe experience.Whan Lothes wif was overgonAnd schape into the salte Ston,As it is spoke into this day,Be bothe hise dowhtres thanne he lay, 230With childe and made hem bothe grete,Til that nature hem wolde lete,And so the cause aboute laddeThat ech of hem a Sone hadde,Moab the ferste, and the secondeAmon, of whiche, as it is founde,Cam afterward to gret encresTuo nacions: and natheles,For that the stockes were ungoode,The branches mihten noght be goode; 240For of the false MoabitesForth with the strengthe of Amonites,Of that thei weren ferst misgete,The poeple of god was ofte upseteIn Irahel and in Judee,As in the bible a man mai se.Lo thus, my Sone, as I thee seie,Thou miht thiselve be beseieOf that thou hast of othre herd:For evere yit it hath so ferd, 250Of loves lust if so befalleThat it in other place falleThan it is of the lawe set,He which his love hath so besetMote afterward repente him sore.And every man is othres lore;Of that befell in time er thisThe present time which now isMay ben enformed hou it stod,And take that him thenketh good, 260And leve that which is noght so.Bot forto loke of time go,Hou lust of love excedeth lawe,It oghte forto be withdrawe;For every man it scholde drede,And nameliche in his Sibrede,Which torneth ofte to vengance:Wherof a tale in remembrance,Which is a long process to hiere,I thenke forto tellen hiere. 270Of a Cronique in daies gon,The which is cleped Pantheon,In loves cause I rede thus,Hou that the grete Antiochus,Of whom that Antioche tokHis ferste name, as seith the bok,Was coupled to a noble queene,And hadde a dowhter hem betwene:Bot such fortune cam to honde,That deth, which no king mai withstonde, 280Bot every lif it mote obeie,This worthi queene tok aweie.The king, which made mochel mone,Tho stod, as who seith, al him oneWithoute wif, bot nathelesHis doghter, which was pierelesOf beaute, duelte aboute him stille.Bot whanne a man hath welthe at wille,The fleissh is frele and falleth ofte,And that this maide tendre and softe, 290Which in hire fadres chambres duelte,Withinne a time wiste and felte:For likinge and concupiscenceWithoute insihte of conscienceThe fader so with lustes blente,That he caste al his hole ententeHis oghne doghter forto spille.This king hath leisir at his willeWith strengthe, and whanne he time sih,This yonge maiden he forlih: 300And sche was tendre and full of drede,Sche couthe noght hir MaidenhedeDefende, and thus sche hath forloreThe flour which she hath longe bore.It helpeth noght althogh sche wepe,For thei that scholde hir bodi kepeOf wommen were absent as thanne;And thus this maiden goth to manne,The wylde fader thus devourethHis oghne fleissh, which non socoureth, 310And that was cause of mochel care.Bot after this unkinde fareOut of the chambre goth the king,And sche lay stille, and of this thing,Withinne hirself such sorghe made,Ther was no wiht that mihte hir glade,For feere of thilke horrible vice.With that cam inne the NorriceWhich fro childhode hire hadde kept,And axeth if sche hadde slept, 320And why hire chiere was unglad.Bot sche, which hath ben overladOf that sche myhte noght be wreke,For schame couthe unethes speke;And natheles mercy sche preideWith wepende yhe and thus sche seide:"Helas, mi Soster, waileway,That evere I sih this ilke day!Thing which mi bodi ferst begatInto this world, onliche that 330Mi worldes worschipe hath bereft."With that sche swouneth now and eft,And evere wissheth after deth,So that welnyh hire lacketh breth.That other, which hire wordes herde,In confortinge of hire ansuerde,To lette hire fadres fol desirSche wiste no recoverir:Whan thing is do, ther is no bote,So suffren thei that suffre mote; 340Ther was non other which it wiste.Thus hath this king al that him listeOf his likinge and his plesance,And laste in such continuance,And such delit he tok therinne,Him thoghte that it was no Sinne;And sche dorste him nothing withseie.Bot fame, which goth every weie,To sondry regnes al abouteThe grete beaute telleth oute 350Of such a maide of hih parage:So that for love of mariageThe worthi Princes come and sende,As thei the whiche al honour wende,And knewe nothing hou it stod.The fader, whanne he understod,That thei his dowhter thus besoghte,With al his wit he caste and thoghteHou that he myhte finde a lette;And such a Statut thanne he sette, 360And in this wise his lawe he taxeth,That what man that his doghter axeth,Bot if he couthe his questionAssoile upon suggestionOf certein thinges that befelle,The whiche he wolde unto him telle,He scholde in certein lese his hed.And thus ther weren manye ded,Here hevedes stondende on the gate,Till ate laste longe and late, 370For lacke of ansuere in the wise,The remenant that weren wiseEschuieden to make assay.Til it befell upon a dayAppolinus the Prince of Tyr,Which hath to love a gret desir,As he which in his hihe modWas likende of his hote blod,A yong, a freissh, a lusti knyht,As he lai musende on a nyht 380Of the tidinges whiche he herde,He thoghte assaie hou that it ferde.He was with worthi compainieArraied, and with good navieTo schipe he goth, the wynd him dryveth,And seileth, til that he arryveth:Sauf in the port of AntiocheHe londeth, and goth to aprocheThe kinges Court and his presence.Of every naturel science, 390Which eny clerk him couthe teche,He couthe ynowh, and in his specheOf wordes he was eloquent;And whanne he sih the king present,He preith he moste his dowhter have.The king ayein began to crave,And tolde him the condicion,Hou ferst unto his questionHe mote ansuere and faile noght,Or with his heved it schal be boght: 400And he him axeth what it was.The king declareth him the casWith sturne lok and sturdi chiere,To him and seide in this manere:"With felonie I am upbore,I ete and have it noght forboreMi modres fleissh, whos housebondeMi fader forto seche I fonde,Which is the Sone ek of my wif.Hierof I am inquisitif; 410And who that can mi tale save,Al quyt he schal my doghter have;Of his ansuere and if he faile,He schal be ded withoute faile.Forthi my Sone," quod the king,"Be wel avised of this thing,Which hath thi lif in jeupartie."Appolinus for his partie,Whan he this question hath herd,Unto the king he hath ansuerd 420And hath rehersed on and onThe pointz, and seide therupon:"The question which thou hast spoke,If thou wolt that it be unloke,It toucheth al the priveteBetwen thin oghne child and thee,And stant al hol upon you tuo."The king was wonder sory tho,And thoghte, if that he seide it oute,Than were he schamed al aboute. 430With slihe wordes and with felleHe seith, "Mi Sone, I schal thee telle,Though that thou be of litel wit,It is no gret merveile as yit,Thin age mai it noght suffise:Bot loke wel thou noght despiseThin oghne lif, for of my graceOf thretty daies fulle a spaceI grante thee, to ben avised."And thus with leve and time assised 440This yonge Prince forth he wente,And understod wel what it mente,Withinne his herte as he was lered,That forto maken him aferedThe king his time hath so deslaied.Wherof he dradde and was esmaied,Of treson that he deie scholde,For he the king his sothe tolde;And sodeinly the nyhtes tyde,That more wolde he noght abide, 450Al prively his barge he henteAnd hom ayein to Tyr he wente:And in his oghne wit he seideFor drede, if he the king bewreide,He knew so wel the kinges herte,That deth ne scholde he noght asterte,The king him wolde so poursuie.Bot he, that wolde his deth eschuie,And knew al this tofor the hond,Forsake he thoghte his oghne lond, 460That there wolde he noght abyde;For wel he knew that on som sydeThis tirant of his felonieBe som manere of tricherieTo grieve his bodi wol noght leve.Forthi withoute take leve,Als priveliche as evere he myhte,He goth him to the See be nyhteIn Schipes that be whete laden:Here takel redy tho thei maden 470And hale up Seil and forth thei fare.Bot forto tellen of the careThat thei of Tyr begonne tho,Whan that thei wiste he was ago,It is a Pite forto hiere.They losten lust, they losten chiere,Thei toke upon hem such penaunce,Ther was no song, ther was no daunce,Bot every merthe and melodieTo hem was thanne a maladie; 480For unlust of that aventureTher was noman which tok tonsure,In doelful clothes thei hem clothe,The bathes and the Stwes botheThei schetten in be every weie;There was no lif which leste pleieNe take of eny joie kepe,Bot for here liege lord to wepe;And every wyht seide as he couthe,"Helas, the lusti flour of youthe, 490Our Prince, oure heved, our governour,Thurgh whom we stoden in honour,Withoute the comun assentThus sodeinliche is fro ous went!"Such was the clamour of hem alle.Bot se we now what is befalleUpon the ferste tale plein,And torne we therto ayein.Antiochus the grete Sire,Which full of rancour and of ire 500His herte berth, so as ye herde,Of that this Prince of Tyr ansuerde,He hadde a feloun bacheler,Which was his prive consailer,And Taliart be name he hihte:The king a strong puison him dihteWithinne a buiste and gold therto,In alle haste and bad him goStrawht unto Tyr, and for no costNe spare he, til he hadde lost 510The Prince which he wolde spille.And whan the king hath seid his wille,This Taliart in a GaleieWith alle haste he tok his weie:The wynd was good, he saileth blyve,Til he tok lond upon the ryveOf Tyr, and forth with al anonInto the Burgh he gan to gon,And tok his In and bod a throwe.Bot for he wolde noght be knowe, 520Desguised thanne he goth him oute;He sih the wepinge al aboute,And axeth what the cause was,And thei him tolden al the cas,How sodeinli the Prince is go.And whan he sih that it was so,And that his labour was in vein,Anon he torneth hom ayein,And to the king, whan he cam nyh,He tolde of that he herde and syh, 530Hou that the Prince of Tyr is fled,So was he come ayein unsped.The king was sori for a while,Bot whan he sih that with no wyleHe myhte achieve his crualte,He stinte his wraththe and let him be.Bot over this now forto telleOf aventures that befelleUnto this Prince of whom I tolde,He hath his rihte cours forth holde 540Be Ston and nedle, til he camTo Tharse, and there his lond he nam.A Burgeis riche of gold and feeWas thilke time in that cite,Which cleped was Strangulio,His wif was Dionise also:This yonge Prince, as seith the bok,With hem his herbergage tok;And it befell that Cite soBefore time and thanne also, 550Thurgh strong famyne which hem laddeWas non that eny whete hadde.Appolinus, whan that he herdeThe meschief, hou the cite ferde,Al freliche of his oghne yifteHis whete, among hem forto schifte,The which be Schipe he hadde broght,He yaf, and tok of hem riht noght.Bot sithen ferst this world began,Was nevere yit to such a man 560Mor joie mad than thei him made:For thei were alle of him so glade,That thei for evere in remembranceMade a figure in resemblanceOf him, and in the comun placeThei sette him up, so that his faceMihte every maner man beholde,So as the cite was beholde;It was of latoun overgilt:Thus hath he noght his yifte spilt. 570Upon a time with his routeThis lord to pleie goth him oute,And in his weie of Tyr he metteA man, the which on knees him grette,And Hellican be name he hihte,Which preide his lord to have insihteUpon himself, and seide him thus,Hou that the grete AntiochusAwaiteth if he mihte him spille.That other thoghte and hield him stille, 580And thonked him of his warnynge,And bad him telle no tidinge,Whan he to Tyr cam hom ayein,That he in Tharse him hadde sein.Fortune hath evere be muableAnd mai no while stonde stable:For now it hiheth, now it loweth,Now stant upriht, now overthroweth,Now full of blisse and now of bale,As in the tellinge of mi tale 590Hierafterward a man mai liere,Which is gret routhe forto hiere.This lord, which wolde don his beste,Withinne himself hath litel reste,And thoghte he wolde his place changeAnd seche a contre more strange.Of Tharsiens his leve anonHe tok, and is to Schipe gon:His cours he nam with Seil updrawe,Where as fortune doth the lawe, 600And scheweth, as I schal reherse,How sche was to this lord diverse,The which upon the See sche ferketh.The wynd aros, the weder derketh,It blew and made such tempeste,Non ancher mai the schip areste,Which hath tobroken al his gere;The Schipmen stode in such a feere,Was non that myhte himself bestere,Bot evere awaite upon the lere, 610Whan that thei scholde drenche at ones.Ther was ynowh withinne wonesOf wepinge and of sorghe tho;This yonge king makth mochel woSo forto se the Schip travaile:Bot al that myhte him noght availe;The mast tobrak, the Seil torof,The Schip upon the wawes drof,Til that thei sihe a londes cooste.Tho made avou the leste and moste, 620Be so thei myhten come alonde;Bot he which hath the See on honde,Neptunus, wolde noght acorde,Bot altobroke cable and corde,Er thei to londe myhte aproche,The Schip toclef upon a roche,And al goth doun into the depe.Bot he that alle thing mai kepeUnto this lord was merciable,And broghte him sauf upon a table, 630Which to the lond him hath upbore;The remenant was al forlore,Wherof he made mochel mone.Thus was this yonge lord him one,Al naked in a povere plit:His colour, which whilom was whyt,Was thanne of water fade and pale,And ek he was so sore acaleThat he wiste of himself no bote,It halp him nothing forto mote 640To gete ayein that he hath lore.Bot sche which hath his deth forbore,Fortune, thogh sche wol noght yelpe,Al sodeinly hath sent him helpe,Whanne him thoghte alle grace aweie;Ther cam a Fisshere in the weie,And sih a man ther naked stonde,And whan that he hath understondeThe cause, he hath of him gret routhe,And onliche of his povere trouthe 650Of suche clothes as he haddeWith gret Pite this lord he cladde.And he him thonketh as he scholde,And seith him that it schal be yolde,If evere he gete his stat ayein,And preide that he wolde him seinIf nyh were eny toun for him.He seide, "Yee, Pentapolim,Wher bothe king and queene duellen."Whanne he this tale herde tellen, 660He gladeth him and gan besecheThat he the weie him wolde teche:And he him taghte; and forth he wenteAnd preide god with good ententeTo sende him joie after his sorwe.It was noght passed yit Midmorwe,Whan thiderward his weie he nam,Wher sone upon the Non he cam.He eet such as he myhte gete,And forth anon, whan he hadde ete, 670He goth to se the toun aboute,And cam ther as he fond a routeOf yonge lusti men withalle;And as it scholde tho befalle,That day was set of such assisse,That thei scholde in the londes guise,As he herde of the poeple seie,Here comun game thanne pleie;And crid was that thei scholden comeUnto the gamen alle and some 680Of hem that ben delivere and wyhte,To do such maistrie as thei myhte.Thei made hem naked as thei scholde,For so that ilke game wolde,As it was tho custume and us,Amonges hem was no refus:The flour of al the toun was thereAnd of the court also ther were,And that was in a large placeRiht evene afore the kinges face, 690Which Artestrathes thanne hihte.The pley was pleid riht in his sihte,And who most worthi was of dedeReceive he scholde a certein medeAnd in the cite bere a pris.Appolinus, which war and wysOf every game couthe an ende,He thoghte assaie, hou so it wende,And fell among hem into game:And there he wan him such a name, 700So as the king himself acomptethThat he alle othre men surmonteth,And bar the pris above hem alle.The king bad that into his halleAt Souper time he schal be broght;And he cam thanne and lefte it noght,Withoute compaignie al one:Was non so semlich of persone,Of visage and of limes bothe,If that he hadde what to clothe. 710At Soupertime nathelesThe king amiddes al the presLet clepe him up among hem alle,And bad his Mareschall of halleTo setten him in such degreThat he upon him myhte se.The king was sone set and served,And he, which hath his pris deservedAfter the kinges oghne word,Was mad beginne a Middel bord, 720That bothe king and queene him sihe.He sat and caste aboute his yheAnd sih the lordes in astat,And with himself wax in debatThenkende what he hadde lore,And such a sorwe he tok therfore,That he sat evere stille and thoghte,As he which of no mete roghte.The king behield his hevynesse,And of his grete gentillesse 730His doghter, which was fair and goodAnd ate bord before him stod,As it was thilke time usage,He bad to gon on his messageAnd fonde forto make him glad.And sche dede as hire fader bad,And goth to him the softe pasAnd axeth whenne and what he was,And preith he scholde his thoghtes leve.He seith, "Ma Dame, be your leve 740Mi name is hote Appolinus,And of mi richesse it is thus,Upon the See I have it lore.The contre wher as I was bore,Wher that my lond is and mi rente,I lefte at Tyr, whan that I wente:The worschipe of this worldes aghte,Unto the god ther I betaghte."And thus togedre as thei tuo speeke,The teres runne be his cheeke. 750The king, which therof tok good kepe,Hath gret Pite to sen him wepe,And for his doghter sende ayein,And preide hir faire and gan to seinThat sche no lengere wolde drecche,Bot that sche wolde anon forth feccheHire harpe and don al that sche canTo glade with that sory man.And sche to don hir fader hesteHir harpe fette, and in the feste 760Upon a Chaier which thei fetteHirself next to this man sche sette:With harpe bothe and ek with moutheTo him sche dede al that sche coutheTo make him chiere, and evere he siketh,And sche him axeth hou him liketh."Ma dame, certes wel," he seide,"Bot if ye the mesure pleideWhich, if you list, I schal you liere,It were a glad thing forto hiere." 770"Ha, lieve sire," tho quod sche,"Now tak the harpe and let me seOf what mesure that ye mene."Tho preith the king, tho preith the queene,Forth with the lordes alle arewe,That he som merthe wolde schewe;He takth the Harpe and in his wiseHe tempreth, and of such assiseSingende he harpeth forth withal,That as a vois celestial 780Hem thoghte it souneth in here Ere,As thogh that he an Angel were.Thei gladen of his melodie,Bot most of alle the compainieThe kinges doghter, which it herde,And thoghte ek hou that he ansuerde,Whan that he was of hire opposed,Withinne hir herte hath wel supposedThat he is of gret gentilesse.Hise dedes ben therof witnesse 790Forth with the wisdom of his lore;It nedeth noght to seche more,He myhte noght have such manere,Of gentil blod bot if he were.Whanne he hath harped al his fille,The kinges heste to fulfille,Awey goth dissh, awey goth cuppe,Doun goth the bord, the cloth was uppe,Thei risen and gon out of halle.The king his chamberlein let calle, 800And bad that he be alle weieA chambre for this man pourveie,Which nyh his oghne chambre be."It schal be do, mi lord," quod he.Appolinus of whom I meneTho tok his leve of king and queeneAnd of the worthi Maide also,Which preide unto hir fader tho,That sche myhte of that yonge manOf tho sciences whiche he can 810His lore have; and in this wiseThe king hir granteth his aprise,So that himself therto assente.Thus was acorded er thei wente,That he with al that evere he mayThis yonge faire freisshe MayOf that he couthe scholde enforme;And full assented in this formeThei token leve as for that nyht.And whanne it was amorwe lyht, 820Unto this yonge man of TyrOf clothes and of good atirWith gold and Selver to despendeThis worthi yonge lady sende:And thus sche made him wel at ese,And he with al that he can pleseHire serveth wel and faire ayein.He tawhte hir til sche was certeinOf Harpe, of Citole and of Rote,With many a tun and many a note 830Upon Musique, upon mesure,And of hire Harpe the temprureHe tawhte hire ek, as he wel couthe.Bot as men sein that frele is youthe,With leisir and continuanceThis Mayde fell upon a chance,That love hath mad him a quereleAyein hire youthe freissh and frele,That malgre wher sche wole or noght,Sche mot with al hire hertes thoght 840To love and to his lawe obeie;And that sche schal ful sore abeie.For sche wot nevere what it is,Bot evere among sche fieleth this:Thenkende upon this man of Tyr,Hire herte is hot as eny fyr,And otherwhile it is acale;Now is sche red, nou is sche paleRiht after the condicionOf hire ymaginacion; 850Bot evere among hire thoghtes alle,Sche thoghte, what so mai befalle,Or that sche lawhe, or that sche wepe,Sche wolde hire goode name kepeFor feere of wommanysshe schame.Bot what in ernest and in game,Sche stant for love in such a plit,That sche hath lost al appetitOf mete, of drinke, of nyhtes reste,As sche that not what is the beste; 860Bot forto thenken al hir filleSche hield hire ofte times stilleWithinne hir chambre, and goth noght oute:The king was of hire lif in doute,Which wiste nothing what it mente.Bot fell a time, as he out wenteTo walke, of Princes Sones threTher come and felle to his kne;And ech of hem in sondri wiseBesoghte and profreth his servise, 870So that he myhte his doghter have.The king, which wolde his honour save,Seith sche is siek, and of that specheTho was no time to beseche;Bot ech of hem do make a billeHe bad, and wryte his oghne wille,His name, his fader and his good;And whan sche wiste hou that it stod,And hadde here billes oversein,Thei scholden have ansuere ayein. 880Of this conseil thei weren glad,And writen as the king hem bad,And every man his oghne bokInto the kinges hond betok,And he it to his dowhter sende,And preide hir forto make an endeAnd wryte ayein hire oghne hond,Riht as sche in hire herte fond.The billes weren wel received,Bot sche hath alle here loves weyved, 890And thoghte tho was time and spaceTo put hire in hir fader grace,And wrot ayein and thus sche saide:"The schame which is in a MaideWith speche dar noght ben unloke,Bot in writinge it mai be spoke;So wryte I to you, fader, thus:Bot if I have Appolinus,Of al this world, what so betyde,I wol non other man abide. 900And certes if I of him faile,I wot riht wel withoute faileYe schull for me be dowhterles."This lettre cam, and ther was pressTofore the king, ther as he stod;And whan that he it understod,He yaf hem ansuer by and by,Bot that was do so prively,That non of othres conseil wiste.Thei toke her leve, and wher hem liste 910Thei wente forth upon here weie.The king ne wolde noght bewreieThe conseil for no maner hihe,Bot soffreth til he time sihe:And whan that he to chambre is come,He hath unto his conseil nomeThis man of Tyr, and let him seThe lettre and al the privete,The which his dowhter to him sente:And he his kne to grounde bente 920And thonketh him and hire also,And er thei wenten thanne atuo,With good herte and with good corageOf full Love and full mariageThe king and he ben hol acorded.And after, whanne it was recordedUnto the dowhter hou it stod,The yifte of al this worldes goodNe scholde have mad hir half so blythe:And forth withal the king als swithe, 930For he wol have hire good assent,Hath for the queene hir moder sent.The queene is come, and whan sche herdeOf this matiere hou that it ferde,Sche syh debat, sche syh desese,Bot if sche wolde hir dowhter plese,And is therto assented full.Which is a dede wonderfull,For noman knew the sothe casBot he himself, what man he was; 940And natheles, so as hem thoghte,Hise dedes to the sothe wroghteThat he was come of gentil blod:Him lacketh noght bot worldes good,And as therof is no despeir,For sche schal ben hire fader heir,And he was able to governe.Thus wol thei noght the love werneOf him and hire in none wise,Bot ther acorded thei divise 950The day and time of Mariage.Wher love is lord of the corage,Him thenketh longe er that he spede;Bot ate laste unto the dedeThe time is come, and in her wiseWith gret offrende and sacrifiseThei wedde and make a riche feste,And every thing which was honesteWithinnen house and ek withouteIt was so don, that al aboute 960Of gret worschipe, of gret noblesseTher cride many a man largesseUnto the lordes hihe and loude;The knyhtes that ben yonge and proude,Thei jouste ferst and after daunce.The day is go, the nyhtes chaunceHath derked al the bryhte Sonne;This lord, which hath his love wonne,Is go to bedde with his wif,Wher as thei ladde a lusti lif, 970And that was after somdel sene,For as thei pleiden hem betwene,Thei gete a child betwen hem tuo,To whom fell after mochel wo.Now have I told of the spousailes.Bot forto speke of the mervailesWhiche afterward to hem befelle,It is a wonder forto telle.It fell adai thei riden oute,The king and queene and al the route, 980To pleien hem upon the stronde,Wher as thei sen toward the londeA Schip sailende of gret array.To knowe what it mene may,Til it be come thei abide;Than sen thei stonde on every side,Endlong the schipes bord to schewe,Of Penonceals a riche rewe.Thei axen when the ship is come:Fro Tyr, anon ansuerde some, 990And over this thei seiden moreThe cause why thei comen foreWas forto seche and forto findeAppolinus, which was of kindeHer liege lord: and he appiereth,And of the tale which he hierethHe was riht glad; for thei him tolde,That for vengance, as god it wolde,Antiochus, as men mai wite,With thondre and lyhthnynge is forsmite; 1000His doghter hath the same chaunce,So be thei bothe in o balance."Forthi, oure liege lord, we seieIn name of al the lond, and preie,That left al other thing to done,It like you to come soneAnd se youre oghne liege menWith othre that ben of youre ken,That live in longinge and desirTil ye be come ayein to Tyr." 1010This tale after the king it haddePentapolim al overspradde,Ther was no joie forto seche;For every man it hadde in specheAnd seiden alle of on acord,"A worthi king schal ben oure lord:That thoghte ous ferst an hevinesseIs schape ous now to gret gladnesse."Thus goth the tidinge overal.Bot nede he mot, that nede schal: 1020Appolinus his leve tok,To god and al the lond betokWith al the poeple long and brod,That he no lenger there abod.The king and queene sorwe made,Bot yit somdiel thei weren gladeOf such thing as thei herden tho:And thus betwen the wel and woTo schip he goth, his wif with childe,The which was evere meke and mylde 1030And wolde noght departe him fro,Such love was betwen hem tuo.Lichorida for hire officeWas take, which was a Norrice,To wende with this yonge wif,To whom was schape a woful lif.Withinne a time, as it betidde,Whan thei were in the See amidde,Out of the North they sihe a cloude;The storm aros, the wyndes loude 1040Thei blewen many a dredful blast,The welkne was al overcast,The derke nyht the Sonne hath under,Ther was a gret tempeste of thunder:The Mone and ek the Sterres botheIn blake cloudes thei hem clothe,Wherof here brihte lok thei hyde.This yonge ladi wepte and cride,To whom no confort myhte availe;Of childe sche began travaile, 1050Wher sche lay in a Caban clos:Hire woful lord fro hire aros,And that was longe er eny morwe,So that in anguisse and in sorweSche was delivered al be nyhteAnd ded in every mannes syhte;Bot natheles for al this woA maide child was bore tho.Appolinus whan he this knew,For sorwe a swoune he overthrew, 1060That noman wiste in him no lif.And whanne he wok, he seide, "Ha, wif,Mi lust, mi joie, my desir,Mi welthe and my recoverir,Why schal I live, and thou schalt dye?Ha, thou fortune, I thee deffie,Nou hast thou do to me thi werste.Ha, herte, why ne wolt thou berste,That forth with hire I myhte passe?Mi peines weren wel the lasse." 1070In such wepinge and in such cryHis dede wif, which lay him by,A thousend sithes he hire kiste;Was nevere man that sih ne wisteA sorwe unto his sorwe lich;For evere among upon the lichHe fell swounende, as he that soghteHis oghne deth, which he besoghteUnto the goddes alle aboveWith many a pitous word of love; 1080Bot suche wordes as tho wereYit herde nevere mannes Ere,Bot only thilke whiche he seide.The Maister Schipman cam and preideWith othre suche as be therinne,And sein that he mai nothing winneAyein the deth, bot thei him rede,He be wel war and tak hiede,The See be weie of his natureReceive mai no creature 1090Withinne himself as forto holde,The which is ded: forthi thei wolde,As thei conseilen al aboute,The dede body casten oute.For betre it is, thei seiden alle,That it of hire so befalle,Than if thei scholden alle spille.The king, which understod here willeAnd knew here conseil that was trewe,Began ayein his sorwe newe 1100With pitous herte, and thus to seie:"It is al reson that ye preie.I am," quod he, "bot on al one,So wolde I noght for mi personeTher felle such adversite.Bot whan it mai no betre be,Doth thanne thus upon my word,Let make a cofre strong of bord,That it be ferm with led and pich."Anon was mad a cofre sich, 1110Al redy broght unto his hond;And whanne he sih and redy fondThis cofre mad and wel enclowed,The dede bodi was besowedIn cloth of gold and leid therinne.And for he wolde unto hire winneUpon som cooste a Sepulture,Under hire heved in aventureOf gold he leide Sommes greteAnd of jeueals a strong beyete 1120Forth with a lettre, and seide thus:"I, king of Tyr Appollinus,Do alle maner men to wite,That hiere and se this lettre write,That helpeles withoute redHier lith a kinges doghter ded:And who that happeth hir to finde,For charite tak in his mynde,And do so that sche be begraveWith this tresor, which he schal have." 1130Thus whan the lettre was full spoke,Thei haue anon the cofre stoke,And bounden it with yren faste,That it may with the wawes laste,And stoppen it be such a weie,That it schal be withinne dreie,So that no water myhte it grieve.And thus in hope and good believeOf that the corps schal wel aryve,Thei caste it over bord als blyve. 1140The Schip forth on the wawes wente;The prince hath changed his entente,And seith he wol noght come at TyrAs thanne, bot al his desirIs ferst to seilen unto Tharse.The wyndy Storm began to skarse,The Sonne arist, the weder cliereth,The Schipman which behinde stiereth,Whan that he sih the wyndes saghte,Towardes Tharse his cours he straghte. 1150Bot now to mi matiere ayein,To telle as olde bokes sein,This dede corps of which ye knoweWith wynd and water was forthroweNow hier, now ther, til ate lasteAt Ephesim the See upcasteThe cofre and al that was therinne.Of gret merveile now beginneMai hiere who that sitteth stille;That god wol save mai noght spille. 1160Riht as the corps was throwe alonde,Ther cam walkende upon the strondeA worthi clerc, a Surgien,And ek a gret Phisicien,Of al that lond the wisest on,Which hihte Maister Cerymon;Ther were of his disciples some.This Maister to the Cofre is come,He peiseth ther was somwhat in,And bad hem bere it to his In, 1170And goth himselve forth withal.Al that schal falle, falle schal;Thei comen hom and tarie noght;This Cofre is into chambre broght,Which that thei finde faste stoke,Bot thei with craft it have unloke.Thei loken in, where as thei foundeA bodi ded, which was bewoundeIn cloth of gold, as I seide er,The tresor ek thei founden ther 1180Forth with the lettre, which thei rede.And tho thei token betre hiede;Unsowed was the bodi sone,And he, which knew what is to done,This noble clerk, with alle hasteBegan the veines forto taste,And sih hire Age was of youthe,And with the craftes whiche he coutheHe soghte and fond a signe of lif.With that this worthi kinges wif 1190Honestely thei token oute,And maden fyres al aboute;Thei leide hire on a couche softe,And with a scheete warmed ofteHire colde brest began to hete,Hire herte also to flacke and bete.This Maister hath hire every joigntWith certein oile and balsme enoignt,And putte a liquour in hire mouth,Which is to fewe clerkes couth, 1200So that sche coevereth ate laste;And ferst hire yhen up sche caste,And whan sche more of strengthe cawhte,Hire Armes bothe forth sche strawhte,Hield up hire hond and pitouslySche spak and seide, "Ha, wher am I?Where is my lord, what world is this?"As sche that wot noght hou it is.Bot Cerymon the worthi lecheAnsuerde anon upon hire speche 1210And seith, "Ma dame, yee ben hiere,Where yee be sauf, as yee schal hiereHierafterward; forthi as nouMi conseil is, conforteth you:For trusteth wel withoute faile,Ther is nothing which schal you faile,That oghte of reson to be do."Thus passen thei a day or tuo;Thei speke of noght as for an ende,Til sche began somdiel amende, 1220And wiste hireselven what sche mente.Tho forto knowe hire hol entente,This Maister axeth al the cas,Hou sche cam there and what sche was."Hou I cam hiere wot I noght,"Quod sche, "bot wel I am bethoghtOf othre thinges al aboute":Fro point to point and tolde him outeAls ferforthli as sche it wiste.And he hire tolde hou in a kiste 1230The See hire threw upon the lond,And what tresor with hire he fond,Which was al redy at hire wille,As he that schop him to fulfilleWith al his myht what thing he scholde.Sche thonketh him that he so wolde,And al hire herte sche discloseth,And seith him wel that sche supposethHire lord be dreint, hir child also;So sih sche noght bot alle wo. 1240Wherof as to the world nomoreNe wol sche torne, and preith therforeThat in som temple of the Cite,To kepe and holde hir chastete,Sche mihte among the wommen duelle.Whan he this tale hir herde telle,He was riht glad, and made hire knowenThat he a dowhter of his owenHath, which he wol unto hir yiveTo serve, whil thei bothe live, 1250In stede of that which sche hath lost;Al only at his oghne costSche schal be rendred forth with hire.She seith, "Grant mercy, lieve sire,God quite it you, ther I ne may."And thus thei drive forth the day,Til time com that sche was hol;And tho thei take her conseil hol,To schape upon good ordinanceAnd make a worthi pourveance 1260Ayein the day whan thei be veiled.And thus, whan that thei be conseiled,In blake clothes thei hem clothe,This lady and the dowhter bothe,And yolde hem to religion.The feste and the professionAfter the reule of that degreWas mad with gret solempnete,Where as Diane is seintefied;Thus stant this lady justefied 1270In ordre wher sche thenkth to duelle.Bot now ayeinward forto telleIn what plit that hire lord stod inne:He seileth, til that he may winneThe havene of Tharse, as I seide er;And whanne he was aryved ther,And it was thurgh the Cite knowe,Men myhte se withinne a throwe,As who seith, al the toun at ones,That come ayein him for the nones, 1280To yiven him the reverence,So glad thei were of his presence:And thogh he were in his corageDesesed, yit with glad visageHe made hem chiere, and to his In,Wher he whilom sojourned in,He goth him straght and was resceived.And whan the presse of poeple is weived,He takth his hoste unto him tho,And seith, "Mi frend Strangulio, 1290Lo, thus and thus it is befalle,And thou thiself art on of alle,Forth with thi wif, whiche I most triste.Forthi, if it you bothe liste,My doghter Thaise be youre leveI thenke schal with you beleveAs for a time; and thus I preie,That sche be kept be alle weie,And whan sche hath of age more,That sche be set to bokes lore. 1300And this avou to god I make,That I schal nevere for hir sakeMi berd for no likinge schave,Til it befalle that I haveIn covenable time of ageBeset hire unto mariage."Thus thei acorde, and al is wel,And forto resten him somdel,As for a while he ther sojorneth,And thanne he takth his leve and torneth 1310To Schipe, and goth him hom to Tyr,Wher every man with gret desirAwaiteth upon his comynge.Bot whan the Schip com in seilinge,And thei perceiven it is he,Was nevere yit in no citeSuch joie mad as thei tho made;His herte also began to gladeOf that he sih the poeple glad.Lo, thus fortune his hap hath lad; 1320In sondri wise he was travailed,Bot hou so evere he be assailed,His latere ende schal be good.And forto speke hou that it stodOf Thaise his doghter, wher sche duelleth,In Tharse, as the Cronique telleth,Sche was wel kept, sche was wel loked,Sche was wel tawht, sche was wel boked,So wel sche spedde hir in hire youtheThat sche of every wisdom couthe, 1330That forto seche in every londSo wys an other noman fond,Ne so wel tawht at mannes yhe.Bot wo worthe evere fals envie!For it befell that time so,A dowhter hath Strangulio,The which was cleped Philotenne:Bot fame, which wole evere renne,Cam al day to hir moder Ere,And seith, wher evere hir doghter were 1340With Thayse set in eny place,The comun vois, the comun graceWas al upon that other Maide,And of hir doghter noman saide.Who wroth but Dionise thanne?Hire thoghte a thousend yer til whanneSche myhte ben of Thaise wrekeOf that sche herde folk so speke.And fell that ilke same tyde,That ded was trewe Lychoride, 1350Which hadde be servant to Thaise,So that sche was the worse at aise,For sche hath thanne no serviseBot only thurgh this Dionise,Which was hire dedlich AnemieThurgh pure treson and envie.Sche, that of alle sorwe can,Tho spak unto hire bondeman,Which cleped was Theophilus,And made him swere in conseil thus, 1360That he such time as sche him setteSchal come Thaise forto fette,And lede hire oute of alle sihte,Wher as noman hire helpe myhte,Upon the Stronde nyh the See,And there he schal this maiden sle.This cherles herte is in a traunce,As he which drad him of venganceWhan time comth an other day;Bot yit dorste he noght seie nay, 1370Bot swor and seide he schal fulfilleHire hestes at hire oghne wille.The treson and the time is schape,So fell it that this cherles knapeHath lad this maiden ther he woldeUpon the Stronde, and what sche scholdeSche was adrad; and he out breideA rusti swerd and to hir seide,"Thou schalt be ded." "Helas!" quod sche,"Why schal I so?" "Lo thus," quod he, 1380"Mi ladi Dionise hath bede,Thou schalt be moerdred in this stede."This Maiden tho for feere schryhte,And for the love of god almyhteSche preith that for a litel stoundeSche myhte knele upon the grounde,Toward the hevene forto crave,Hire wofull Soule if sche mai save:And with this noise and with this cry,Out of a barge faste by, 1390Which hidd was ther on Scomerfare,Men sterten out and weren wareOf this feloun,and he to go,And sche began to crie tho,"Ha, mercy, help for goddes sake!Into the barge thei hire take,As thieves scholde, and forth thei wente.Upon the See the wynd hem hente,And malgre wher thei wolde or non,Tofor the weder forth thei gon, 1400Ther halp no Seil, ther halp non Ore,Forstormed and forblowen soreIn gret peril so forth thei dryve,Til ate laste thei aryveAt Mitelene the Cite.In havene sauf and whan thei be,The Maister Schipman made him boun,And goth him out into the toun,And profreth Thaise forto selle.On Leonin it herde telle, 1410Which Maister of the bordel was,And bad him gon a redy pasTo fetten hire, and forth he wente,And Thaise out of his barge he hente,And to this bordeller hir solde.And he, that be hire body woldeTake avantage, let do crye,That what man wolde his lecherieAttempte upon hire maidenhede,Lei doun the gold and he schal spede. 1420And thus whan he hath crid it outeIn syhte of al the poeple aboute,He ladde hire to the bordel tho.No wonder is thogh sche be wo:Clos in a chambre be hireselve,Ech after other ten or tuelveOf yonge men to hire in wente;Bot such a grace god hire sente,That for the sorwe which sche madeWas non of hem which pouer hade 1430To don hire eny vileinie.This Leonin let evere aspie,And waiteth after gret beyete;Bot al for noght, sche was forlete,That mo men wolde ther noght come.Whan he therof hath hiede nome,And knew that sche was yit a maide,Unto his oghne man he saide,That he with strengthe ayein hire leveTho scholde hir maidenhod bereve. 1440This man goth in, bot so it ferde,Whan he hire wofull pleintes herdeAnd he therof hath take kepe,Him liste betre forto wepeThan don oght elles to the game.And thus sche kepte hirself fro schame,And kneleth doun to therthe and preideUnto this man, and thus sche seide:"If so be that thi maister woldeThat I his gold encresce scholde, 1450It mai noght falle be this weie:Bot soffre me to go mi weieOut of this hous wher I am inne,And I schal make him forto winneIn som place elles of the toun,Be so it be religioun,Wher that honeste wommen duelle.And thus thou myht thi maister telle,That whanne I have a chambre there,Let him do crie ay wyde where, 1460What lord that hath his doghter diere,And is in will that sche schal liereOf such a Scole that is trewe,I schal hire teche of thinges newe,Which as non other womman canIn al this lond." And tho this manHire tale hath herd, he goth ayein,And tolde unto his maister pleinThat sche hath seid; and therupon,Whan than he sih beyete non 1470At the bordel be cause of hire,He bad his man to gon and spireA place wher sche myhte abyde,That he mai winne upon som sideBe that sche can: bot ate lesteThus was sche sauf fro this tempeste.He hath hire fro the bordel take,Bot that was noght for goddes sake,Bot for the lucre, as sche him tolde.Now comen tho that comen wolde 1480Of wommen in her lusty youthe,To hiere and se what thing sche couthe:Sche can the wisdom of a clerk,Sche can of every lusti werkWhich to a gentil womman longeth,And some of hem sche underfongethTo the Citole and to the Harpe,And whom it liketh forto carpeProverbes and demandes slyhe,An other such thei nevere syhe, 1490Which that science so wel tawhte:Wherof sche grete yiftes cawhte,That sche to Leonin hath wonne;And thus hire name is so begonneOf sondri thinges that sche techeth,That al the lond unto hir secheth